


Delectable

by trascendenza



Category: As the World Turns RPF
Genre: Food, Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-30
Updated: 2007-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Just look at it, Jake.  It's got, like, five hundred different kinds of goodness, all squeezed into one perfect little pastry."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Delectable

"This muffin is the coolest thing I have ever seen in my life."

Jake looked up from the pad he was idly doodling on. His scribbles weren't looking much like Van, anyway; the eyes were too far apart or something. He sighed. Turning the pad face down, he stuck his pencil behind his ear and propped his feet up on the coffee table, folding his arms behind his neck.

He spared a glance at the muffin, but, well, in a competition between looking at Van and looking at a muffin? Van won hands down.

"Why's that?" He asked distractedly, much more interested in admiring the low cut of Van's tank top.

Van held the muffin up and looked at it much the way a penitent might look up at the statues in church (the only thing missing was the shaft of sunlight to light up his face—oh, and the organ music crescendoing to a holy climax—but these trailers didn't have skylights, unfortunately).

"Just look at it, Jake. It's got, like, five hundred different kinds of goodness, all squeezed into one perfect little pastry."

"I'm not sure I follow. Weren't you supposed to be prepping for tomorrow?" He vaguely remembered that was why Van invited him over, actually—he'd claimed he needed someone to keep him on task.

"Prepping, schmepping." Van waved the suggestion away. "Who can prep when this culinary beauty is sitting at your table, just begging to be eaten?"

Jake swallowed at the way Van said 'begging to be eaten.' That sort of summed up every dirty thought he was having about Van's way-too-full-_not_-to-fantasize-about lips.

He wondered if he should be worried that he was coming up with titles for parts of Van's body.

He coughed and decided to look at the stupid thing. "I'm still not sure I see the appeal, man. It's a… muffin."

"Jake, Jake, Jake. My poor, deprived pedestrian friend. This is no simple muffin. This is a muffin of fucking _awesome._ Cranberries, raspberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, orange zest." Van's eyes got far away. "It's like… the maker of this muffin understands me."

Van petted it, tenderly, as one would a baby.

"Are you going to eat it or just molest it? I think they have laws against that in this state."

Van looked at him again, his lips in a half-pout, eyes a little narrowed.

Jake hated (and loved) that look, because it undoubtedly meant really bad (but kind of _good_, in a bad "oh, shit, if he gets any closer my hard-on's going to take out his eye" way) things. The last time Van fixed him with that look he'd ended up with an armful of half-clothed Van (oh, the humanity), a wad of damp cash clenched between his teeth, and shorts that were falling off his ass as he was running away from the sound of sirens.

That look had frightening powers.

Van hopped up off the couch (well, there went that pose—Van sitting on his stomach, feet crossed at his ankles, chin propped on his elbow—which was one of Jake's favorites, as evidenced by the twenty half-scrawled doodles he had of it) and walked over to the easy chair Jake was sitting in, the muffin held out in both hands in front of him like an offering.

Jake unbuttoned the top of his shirt, gulping a little, and planted his legs, ready for just about anything.

Except for what happened next.

Van kneeled in front of him (Van… kneeling in front of him. Holy fucking hell, _Van. kneeling. in. front. of. him._) and set his elbows on Jake's knees.

"Try some."

Jake rapidly blinked, simultaneously clamping down on his hips with all his willpower, preventing them from involuntarily jerking upwards. (Which would have been really awkward to explain. _"Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to stick my dick in your mouth like that… it just sort of… fell in there."_)

"But—it's yours—don't you want to—"

Van angled the muffin closer, wiggling it like a parent trying to feed a reluctant child. "C'mon, Jakey-poo, it won't bite. Have a little, and _then_ you tell me this isn't the most orgasmic thing you've ever eaten in your life."

Jake wondered what god he had offended to deserve the punishment of Van (_kneeling in front of him_), tossing around words like "orgasmic" and asking Jake to open his mouth…

For a fucking muffin.

"It's okay, man, really. I believe you. I think it would be better if you ate the whole thing." Because if Van didn't move soon, he would quite literally _see_ the evidence of Jake's raging need to strip him naked and lick every inch of that oh-so-unavailable body. Would see in a way that couldn't be brushed off with a "Sorry, didn't see you there" or the ever-clever "I get really touchy when I'm drunk" or his personal favorite "Oh, was that _your_ ass? I was aiming for Alexandra."

Come to think of it, the little green men on Mars probably knew by now.

Van, completely oblivious to Jake's happy-in-his-pants trip down memory lane, tore a piece off the top of the object of affection (Jake didn't feel very dignified being jealous of a concoction of pastry and fruit).

"One little piece. Then I swear I'll leave you alone."

_I don't _want_ you to leave me alone._ But explaining that sentiment would take a whole lot of brain cells that Jake didn't have at his disposal right now.

"Fine," he said, desperately trying to conjure up images of kittens or dead things or dead kittens to keep the impending erection of great justice at bay.

He reached out to take the piece from Van's hand, but Van, too quickly for him to comprehend what was happening, surged upward and stuck it into Jake's mouth.

_With his fingers._

His—oh, _fuck_—his fingers, which Jake's lips closed down on automatically. And his tongue—there was really no excuse—flicked forward to taste.

Van's skin was salty, the way that most skin was salty, but also sweet, doubtless from how much he'd been fondling the sugar-encrusted goodies from the gift basket on the table, and underneath that? Was the taste of Van.

And with that in his mouth, a whole army of dead kittens couldn't stop the almost jean-shredding hard-on he no longer had the presence of mind to regret.

"That's good, isn't it?" Van said, his hips brushing against Jake's calves. And Van had the gall to _smile_ when Jake (_fuckfuckfuck_) bit down on his fingers. "Make sure you get every crumb. That's a good boy."

And then, evil bastard that he was, Van took his hand away. Just as Jake had been starting to happily memorize the shape of his fingers. But he was beyond shame at this point, and craned his neck forward, hoping to re-capture them, a weak groan caught in his throat.

Van, that cheerful smile still plastered across his face, held up another piece of muffin. (The part of Jake that _wasn't_ thinking of jumping Van right now—in other words, about one one-thousandth of one-millionth of his brain—did have to admit that it was really tasty. Then again, he would bet good money that almost anything would taste delicious on the tips of those fingers.)

"You want some more, Jake?" Van asked, his voice low and breathy, mouth hanging open as he held out his hand again.

Jake, prying his hand from the arm of the chair, reached up and grabbed Van's wrist, hard, and very, very slowly slid Van's fingers into his mouth.

He could hear his tongue sort of… slurping, in a way that was very reminiscent of the cocksucking in the porn he _hadn't_ been watching that night after the two of them had gone skinny-dipping in some stranger's pool (the rich lady's dog had nearly blown their cover, but Van, ever the charmer, had quieted him down). And he should have been embarrassed, or tried to stop, or _something_, but Van was _watching_ him, was sliding his free hand up Jake's thigh and generally making it difficult to be anything other than a desperate fool.

And fuck if he wasn't amply rewarded, the cloying sweetness of sugar and fruit mixing in his mouth with the taste of Van, sense reeling from all this contact, every nerve in his mouth on full red alert.

By the time the muffin was gone, Jake had licked his way up Van's wrist, into the small of his elbows, and finally, oh, _finally_, to his jaw and his earlobes and those obscenely beautiful lips, which he devoured with dedication that he usually reserved for other important things like, say, air.

He didn't even know how to react when he felt his zipper come open.

Good thing that his dick did.

Van's grip was loose and still damp, too, from Jake's ministrations, but the instant contact was made, Jake started moaning into Van's mouth. He was pretty sure this was what going crazy felt like—even crazier than he'd gone when he'd basically been giving Van's fingers a blowjob—because his hips were jerking up before the first full downstroke, and blinding white spots pricked at the back of his eyes when Van's thumb curled and twisted and slicked pre-come out.

Van moved so that his mouth was right next to Jake's ear; his voice was warm, low, and breathy. "Is that good, Jake?"

Good, Jake would have said if he'd had any powers of speech, did not even _begin_ to describe how this felt.

"You like it, don't you? You want some more?"

Jake whimpered—yes, he _whimpered_—into the crook of Van's neck, because now his mind was going crazy, too, hearing Van talk. It was like the porn he (hadn't) watched, except real, and so much better, because it was Van, and Van could recite the Ten Commandments at him and his dick would still sit up and diligently take notes.

"You like when I touch you like that? Think it feels good, don't you? You looked so good, Jake, mouth sucking on me."

Van started talking faster, louder, words stringing together with barely a pause between once sentence and the next; his hand, mirroring, picked up the pace, gripping tighter and sliding faster. And with each downstroke, Jake felt the vertebrae in his spine start threatening to melt, because Van's fingers were on him, _touching_ him, and Van was goddamned right—it was so _good._

He edged closer and closer to the precipice, drawn in by the honey-sweet temptation of Van's promising words, "Come on, Jake, come on, I'll give it to you good, I'll give it to you so good." It clenched in the pit of his stomach, hot and hard and heavy, building to the point of white-hot intensity—he wasn't sure if he could take any more—

Van tilted his head, lips pressed against Jake's ear.

"Come for me, Jake."

And that was all it took—every muscle in his body tensed and locked, the pressure filling his ears with a roaring wave as he threw his head back, hips bucking upward when he came long and hard into Van's hand.

Hours or years or lifetimes later, he opened his eyes and looked up at Van. His heartbeat was still in the vicinity of his hands and his feet, and his brain, well, who knew where the fuck his _brain_ was, because as he craned his neck to see Van—who was now sitting his lap (when had that happened?)—all he could do was smile goofily and then let his head loll onto the arm Van had around his shoulder.

Van grinned down at him in that way that Jake, previous to this, would have found frightening.

"Okay, seriously, you have to tell me. _How_ awesome was that muffin?"


End file.
